Confessions of a Murder Suspect

17

Funny moment in the middle of a tragedy.

Detective Ryan Hayes sat down on the Pork Chair and it let out a snuffle, a snort, and a ringing squeal.

He jumped up. “What the…?”

“Art,” I told him with a smile. A real smile, this time.

“Does the sofa bark or anything? Let me know now.”

“The sofa is mute,” I said.

“Fine,” Hayes said, but he eased himself down gingerly anyway. “Sit down,” he told me. “Please.” He looked through the Plexiglas top of the shark tank that served as a coffee table.

“These are real sharks?”

“Pygmy sharks. Hugo won them.”

“He won them? Like, at a carnival?”

I paused and decided it would be too hard to explain “Grande Gongos” just then. So I said, “These are real pygmy sharks. At an average of nine inches long, they are the second-smallest sharks in the world. Their stomachs glow green because they’re bioluminescent—they have special phosphorescent cells in their skin. It’s possible that the green light attracts prey to them. The sharks can’t see you because the tank is specially designed to block light—”

Hayes interrupted my monologue. “Your mother was a bit like a shark, wasn’t she, Tandy? No disrespect, but that’s what I’ve heard. She worked all the time, but still, she had some pretty unhappy customers lately. Very unsatisfied customers.”

“She wasn’t exactly Bernie Madoff. My mother was honest. Honest people can have enemies. My mother said whatever she believed to be the truth.”

“There was a massive lawsuit pending against her for manipulating investor returns. A man named Royal Rampling is at the helm of it. Ever heard that name before?”

My stomach lurched, but I ignored it. “ ‘In volatile times, not every client is a satisfied client,’ ” I said, quoting my dead mother. “Still. Let’s say she had a particularly disgruntled client who happened to be a homicidal maniac as well. How could this… Royal Rampling”—I forced the name out with some difficulty—“have gotten in, killed her and my father—”

“We’re looking at every possibility,” said Hayes, again cutting me off. “Let’s talk about something else. I wanted to apologize for my partner, Tandy. Caputo is a hound. Did you know that hare hounds can pick up the scent of a rabbit on concrete?”

“I did, actually,” I said truthfully.

“Then you know that if a rabbit runs across the road, an hour later a hare hound can still smell that the hare has been there. Cap Caputo’s like that. If there’s a trail, he’ll find it.”

“Thanks for sharing. When will we get the autopsy report?” I asked.

Caputo was coming down the stairs and overheard me.

“There’s no ‘we,’ Tammy. We’re the cops. You’re a suspect. Prime suspect, in my opinion.”

“You may call me Tandy. You may call me Ms. Angel. But please don’t ever talk down to me again.”

“Or what?”

“Don’t bother testing me, Sergeant,” I warned. “Angels always, always ace their tests.”

“All the more reason you make an ideal suspect. As far as I can tell, Angel is a pretty ironic name for this family.”

“We don’t particularly relate to the spirits, if that’s what you mean.”

“You know what I mean. You guys don’t exactly wear halos.”

“Neither do the thirty-four other Angels in the Manhattan white pages. Halos are so last season, anyway.”

My attempt to sound like a normal teenager went over well. He smirked.

“Cute, kid. We’re leaving now, but don’t skip town. We’ll be seeing all of you Angels again very soon. Especially you, Miss Indian Cooking Stove. Especially you.”